‘Of course. Like I said, Lanark Avenue needs a poet.’

That was enough. Now, I thought—believed—I was a writer.

Peter returned to the hoe, and the weeds around his car. He said, ‘I’ll do you a deal. You write me a novel, I’ll give you my Jag.’

I wasn’t sure.

‘It’s been sittin’ here so long. I was thinking of selling it for scrap. But you could do it up, eh?’

Cobwebs and rust and shit. But somewhere beneath it all, I knew, was a Jag. ‘So, I finish the novel …?’

‘You get my Jag. Good deal, eh? You don’t have to get it published. I don’t even care if it’s any good. But you gotta finish it.’

‘You’ll help?’

‘Course. Show me every coupla chapters.’

He took a broom and swept the dirt from the bonnet, the roof. Maybe he was thinking of me, maybe Pop, maybe John, but what did it matter?

I walked into what had been Vicky’s room, the screen kicked out, the last of the window glass smashed. She was still there, calling out, Clem, get home this instant! Then hiding.

And me arriving home from school, at the top of my voice: That you, Vicky?

Not, it’s not Vicky, it’s Mrs Whelan.

Did you want to come over?

And showing herself. No, I gotta clean me room.

Tomorrow?

Is yer mum making scones?

I guess.

Okay then.

Into the old bathroom, the Rosies’ cracked toilet bowl, and a lump of shit on the floor. Graffiti, tags, cartoon cocks in action. We’d called the police at 11 pm and they’d eventually arrived at midnight. We’d wandered over and Pop had said, ‘No, they’re long gone,’ and the constable had said, ‘Unless they’re gonna put a fence around the place there’s not a lot we can do.’ So, they’d just poked around, filled in some paperwork and left.

Morning, and you could see the extent of the damage. It seemed a shame, because Oswald had been houseproud, vacuuming his carpet and mowing his lawns every Sunday morning, before retiring to his books. A sort of domestic Prospero, avoiding his suburban void. He was still there, in his ruined house, caught up in Conrad as the smell of wisteria drew him out of his shell. Saying, Clem, what’s all this about vaginas?

It’s a metaphor.

For what?

How willing we are to … give everything up.

How do you mean?

Sell out. If the price is right.

Like the telly show?

I walked into his bedroom, again, and hoped I’d find his Conrad. Instead, there was a pile of rubbish where someone had tried to start a fire.

They’re gonna burn this place down, I said.

It won’t worry me.

What about Tina and Vicky?

No reply.

He’d left fertiliser in the shed, and they’d brought that inside and scattered it around.

I gotta go now.

He didn’t look up from his book. Good-o, Clem. Take care of yerself.